


go and tell the king (the sky is falling in)

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5670715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul is surprised that he's the first one who finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	go and tell the king (the sky is falling in)

 

 

 

Paul is surprised that he's the first one who finds out.

 

Ryan was not subtle about it. Ryan wasn't subtle about a lot of things, but in the way that people came to depend on as not harboring any ill will. That's why it takes a while for the penny to drop. So in short, Paul remembers this:

A whispered conversation. _Yeah, this is Rhodri's missus. Hi everyone, this is Natasha._ A glimpse of Ryan's face in the back parking lot, marked by the neon pub signs. In that light he looked nothing like himself, lurid florescent pink glow in the hollows under his eyes and his mouth stretched wide, grinning. It was conspiratorial, to say the least, classic Ryan-about-to-crack-a-joke. And there was a woman with him. Natasha.

 

Then the sound of the penny hitting the floor when Ryan leans in to kiss her.

 

-

 

“Giggsy.” Ryan looks up in surprise.

“What?”

“I know.” There. Uncomfortable as predicted. Even more so now that Ryan's looking at him, resigned.

“About what?”

“Don't play around, you fuck. That's your brother's wife.”

“What are you on about?”

“It's going to get out.”

“Scholes.”

“Not from me, obviously, christ.”

There's a silence when they both look away and try to think of something to say. Paul notes in a detached way that there's white creeping in on the edges of Ryan's hair, just above his ears.

“We should get a drink,” Ryan says, getting up.

 

-

 

There are many things Paul could say about Ryan. Most of it boils down to football. He was, put simply, the best player Paul had ever seen, and yet it rings hollow now that he's thinking about it. The best player he's ever seen. He's known Ryan since he was twelve.

There are many things Paul could say about Ryan. By the time Ryan comes back with two mugs of beer, not quite meeting his gaze full on, Paul had made up his mind.

“Giggsy-” he starts.

“Let's not talk about it now, alright?” Ryan says, hastily.

“Yeah. Fine,” Paul says, trying to catch Ryan's eye to let him know he was fully on board with the idea. That it was perfectly fine for them to put the matter to rest and never bring it up again. Paul didn't know what he wanted Ryan to do about it, even, just that anything was better than having to dissect it over beer. He shifts in his chair and Ryan sighs.

 

-

 

They get drunk and Paul thinks vaguely that there was going to be hell to pay in the morning. They were no longer boys by any stretch of the imagination, and getting this drunk probably promised a magnificent hangover the likes of which they would have winced at even as teenagers. Not that Paul was as familiar with a hangover as Ryan was, but still. Ryan starts laughing when they're swaying on the sidewalk outside the pub, arms slung around each other, Paul frowning at his phone to try and figure out if Claire's texted.

“Scholesy, what do you remember best about initiations.”

“Trying not to die in the dryer.”

Ryan snickers, burying his face in Paul's shoulder. Paul tries to shove him off, then gives up when it's clear that it would mean the both of them toppling over. He sticks his arm out instead, wearily waiting for a cab to pull up.

“When are you done with this, d'you think,” Ryan says. Paul doesn't ask what he meant. Everything ached already, and they've just been having a quiet drink together. Or ten. Or twenty, he'd lost count. Everything ached and it was time.

“This season,” he says on impulse, even though he'd known it all along. Nothing new.

Ryan exhales. Paul could see his breath hanging in the air; it was getting cold in Manchester. “You and Gary both, huh.”

The cab comes before Paul could say anything else, but he thinks about the dryer again, sitting in the front seat looking in the rear view mirror at Ryan sprawled out in the back. Strange that all those miserable memories could be turned to gold with time passing. He wonders if it worked with all memories, like the ones in the present, too. Such different uncertainties about their futures. The promises they made as boys, _one day when we're older and playing for Manchester United,_ and what now? _One day when we're old_.

 

-

 

“What about you?” They're lying on top of the covers shoulder to shoulder. Ryan's bed was ridiculously comfortable, even though Paul was feeling increasingly uncomfortable at being dragged upstairs. Ryan took up most of the space.

“What?”

“When are you retiring.”

A pause while Ryan considers. Paul thinks he's fallen asleep, but he says, “I'll keep playing for as long as I can, I guess.”

Paul doesn't say anything, because it was really just a confirmation of what he already knew. Ryan yawns and adds, “Stay here for the night, alright. It's already three in the morning. Stacey's at her mum's.”

“Not going anywhere, you dickhead,” Paul manages to slur out. Ryan pats his head clumsily, fingers tangling in his short hair. Paul groans.

“I can't sleep like this. Move.”

“What?”

“Move over, Giggs.” Ryan mumbles and obliges.

“I'm too tired to take off my shoes,” Paul says at the ceiling. It makes him absurdly want to laugh, but it turned out he's too tired for that too. Ryan laughs for him, hiccuping giggles that made Paul worried he's going to throw up. It went on forever, Ryan laughing, until Paul's afraid he'll never stop, just keep right on laughing till he throws up his insides and chokes on his blood or something. Just as he's about to tell Ryan to knock it off, Ryan kicks him weakly and rolls over.

“Sleep,” he says.

Paul shuts his eyes.

 

-

 

He gets it the next time they're playing and Ryan gets the ball.

As long as Ryan kept playing like that- _no, he's already played like that_ \- like his feet are only an afterthought, his movements almost languid, hiding in plain sight the fact that he's intent on leaving his soul on the pitch. Paul jogs after him, Ryan already pulling ahead of everyone. As long as Ryan kept playing like that. ( _How long? As long as I can,_ meaning _always, always_ ).

Then everything else is simple. Paul slows to a walk when the dejected goalkeeper goes to pick the ball up from the back of the net. Everything else burned away- the man with his face lit up by neon lights, the boy grinning from behind a mop, Ryan. Gone. All that's left is the red blur running down the wing, safe outside of what time can touch.

Ryan turns and looks straight at him, and taps the crest over his heart with three fingers.

 

 

 

 


End file.
